


Between here and there

by Lorquian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorquian/pseuds/Lorquian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three times Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes met under the rain and the time one of them couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between here and there

I

The mechanism of memory always intrigued Irene. How selective and deceitful it could get, but especially how precise the recollections of a shocking moment were. Because she could perfectly remember the day she read the headline.

  
How did it all start? A walk home under the drizzle. The usual moment she took to examine the headlines under her umbrella. Bottom right corner on some paper she usually ignored. Suicide. The hieratic expression she kept from the moment she bought the paper to the reading of the words was contradicted by her rushed moves.  
Page 13. “Suicide of infamous detective”. Repeating the words aloud only gave them strength, that reality became tangible. A single column detailed how Sherlock Holmes was a complete fraud. Inventing Moriarty, kidnapping children, killing himself. All of those detestable crimes tarnishing the memory of the deceased. But none of that was real, not even the suicide.

  
It wasn’t his style. He’d found a way to deceive everybody, even herself. He was preparing himself to return. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

  
Rain didn’t stop in a while. Irene could still hear it as she recalled the printed words. Nonsense. All of it was. A text was sent immediately afterwards, without expecting a reply.  
On the other side of the Atlantic, a man ran under a storm. From his pocket he heard a too familiar moan. He guessed she knew by then. The impossibility to reply didn’t stop him from admiring the words on the screen. ‘You’re not dead, let’s have dinner’. Maybe at some other time.

 

Interlude

  
Kate was the only witness of Irene’s obsession. Maps, flights, news. How could she believe that man was alive? Jealousy filled the redhead, even if she shouldn’t be feeling that way. Hopefully he’d remain dead.

 

II

  
Only once Sebastian Moran dared to demand her loyalty. And Irene only needed a couple of words to shut down his demands. “Jim was right, I should never trust a whore”. “Dominatrix, dear.” She feared for her life for a week, but the tiger was probably too busy attempting to kill a certain detective.

  
Three months after the unpleasant exchange with Colonel Moran, the trace she was following went cold. Waiting was the only thing left to do. Once again, Sherlock being dead was not an option she contemplated.

The reward to her patience was a wounded detective at her doorstep on a given eve. After cleaning the dry blood and stitching a deep cut, the beaten man soundly slept on her bed. She sat on the couch throughout the night, staring at the door.

By the morning he was ready to leave. He didn’t need help, he repeated the words like a mantra. What a flagrant lie, she thought. Irene just accepted a soft kiss and let him walk out. She’d told Kate knowing he still lived was more than enough, yet both of them knew it was a lie.

The anxiety grew as the days went by, but what burned the most were Sebastian’s old words. By the end of a week she knew. Her loyalty belonged to herself and what she cared about. With that in mind, she walked out of her building and into a gentle mizzle, going wherever she needed to be.

 

Interlude

Years later Kate gathered the courage to ask. But the woman only gave her vague replies. How could the redhead expect her to summarize in a couple of sentences months of midnight words and hushed encounters? The way he once vehemently traced her shoulders, euphoric and lost. His skin burning under her fingertips. Hitched breaths and sporadic kisses. Those were all beyond any explanation.

However she did have an answer to “did you love him?”, yet no one, not even the man himself, ever asked.

 

III

It wasn’t painful to see her go, that’s what he thought. How could he feel any pain if his chest became a void, ancestral as time itself? That didn’t last, the emptiness left the moment he could no longer recall her smell, the brush of her lips setting his skin ablaze.

Soon he stopped wondering. Because at first he couldn’t repress his mind chasing after the woman, the exact way he should have months earlier. But other situations concerned him more. He shouldn’t reimagine how different it’d all be if he’d said she didn’t have to go. Anything that interfered with his thoughts had to be left outside. Not for a second he doubted about her wellbeing, but asking could potentially endanger both of them. Fortunately, the longed return to London wiped away the idea of contacting her.

That changed three years later, at the Hamptons. The party was an elegant affair. From his viewpoint, he could watch her dance with another man. Something similar to rage took over him. Perhaps jealousy, he wondered as a light rain started falling, and the guests ran to find cover. Irene, holding the hem of her wedding dress, held the man’s hand as they rushed in.

She saw him, that he knew. What else could cause that grim expression amidst the joy of her day? The raindrops heavily hit him as he turned his back and left.

 

Interlude

In perspective, the year she became Mrs. Norton marked the breaking point. Her life went down from there. Of course Godfrey loved her deeply, but being married to someone whose feelings she wasn’t capable to reciprocate backfired quickly. Within a month her visits to Kate had to stop almost completely, and some weeks later she received a call in the middle of the night. Apparently, her friend had taken too many pills but regretted her decision just in time. Following said episode, the redhead left her for good and Irene couldn’t blame her. She was tired of being pushed aside, for a detective, for the adventure, for a safe bet.

Trapped inside an ivory tower, her worries were left outside, but so was anything amusing. Eventually she reached her limit, leaving her husband in the friendliest manner she could. Those years of silent marriage took a toll, but some things never changed, especially the periodic texts she got from the other side of the world. She treasured them until the awaited return to her country.

 

IV

London and its greyness had had left an impression on her mind. After more than a decade, and several major changes, she still perceived the city she knew underneath the taller buildings. Instead of getting too fond of those familiar streets, she reminded herself her purpose of her journey.

“So, Mr. Holmes.” She felt the need to pour her entire soul in her following words. What to say first? The divorce? Probably. “Being Mrs. Norton became dull after a while. I tried to love him, but it’d never happen. On the other hand, Kate. She left, and is very happy right now. Finally someone could reciprocate her passion.”

The silence was accompanied with wind, announcing the storm to come. “I heard you had a couple of bad years. Doctor Watson stopped running around with you, his family needed him more. It had to happen. Eventually you’d get careless on a case without him, we all knew. I believe I told you that in Moscow. You’d endanger yourself and wouldn’t walk away so easily.” The hyacinths she carried were held tighter as her voice broke. “It’s a shame we never got a proper goodbye. Nor a proper final kiss. But with us, this is the only possible outcome. You promised not to go too soon, yet life caught up with you first. Now you’re a myth. The world won’t know who you really were, but I will.”

Her hand shook as she put the flowers down in front of the headstone. Purple tones shone against the black marble and golden letters. Any other possible words were unnecessary, and couldn’t be uttered.

Irene Adler walked out of the cemetery under a winter shower, leaving the final bit of her past behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to elinorx because she suggested the name, you're awesome!


End file.
